


A Song for the Heartsick

by WolvesoftheBlueMist



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolvesoftheBlueMist/pseuds/WolvesoftheBlueMist
Summary: "No matter what he tells himself, he can’t stop. It’s easier every time to make the small incision, to watch as the water turns a reddish brown and flow down the drain. It’s bad, he knows, but at the same time it’s fascinating, to know that this pulsing liquid is what keeps him alive. He’s not sure it deserves it anymore."Or: Instead of binge drinking his sanity away in Madison, Patrick loses it in a different way, before finding himself and his happiness.





	A Song for the Heartsick

**Author's Note:**

> "No matter what he tells himself, he can’t stop. It’s easier every time to make the small incision, to watch as the water turns a reddish brown and flow down the drain. It’s bad, he knows, but at the same time it’s fascinating, to know that this pulsing liquid is what keeps him alive. He’s not sure it deserves it anymore."
> 
> This work has been in the writing (quite literally) for nearly a year now. Originally started to bring awareness, it became extremely personal halfway through it, as one of my friends tried to commit suicide via pills. Thus the story was on the back burner for months. Now that this chapter is done, I sincerely hope you all enjoy, and remember to always speak up as it may save lives.
> 
> This is dedicated to Jordan, my dear friend whom I almost lost  
> and to the real Emma, who did lose everything, only to find it again.

Patrick doesn’t really know what he is doing when he books the cheapest, fastest flight out of Buffalo. All he knows is that he can’t get away fast enough. He can’t bear it, the worried glances and overshadowing help. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t need it.  There’s too much attention and it’s horribly similar to the end of the season, the watching and judging eyes. He needs to run, he needs to escape.

Some of the guys called, Sharpy especially, wanting to know if he was ok what they could do what was he thinking?  The rookies were unaware as it happened, but the older guys could see Patrick slowly falling apart as he tried to fill Jonny’s role on the team. He’d tried so fucking hard, but nothing he did seemed to work, and Jonny didn’t help when he crashed his car into a pole. Patrick had flipped the fuck out, losing his mind and having a panic attack the night he’d found out. Throughout his concussion, Patrick would come over whenever he had free time, trying to make sure Jonny was okay and not about to keel over. He refilled the fridge, changed Jonny’s sheets, did the laundry. Not once did Jonny say anything. The entire time Patrick was over he’d lay in bed or watch Patrick with flat eyes. For the first week, Patrick tried to fill the silence with chatter; about the team, his family, whether or not the Hawks would make it to the playoffs (a moot conversation), but Jonny never gave his two cents. He just sat there, judging and Patrick had the uncomfortable feeling he was failing. Q switching up the lines didn’t help. Patrick was left floundering and trying to figure out how to be better for everyone, for himself, for Jonny.

Though they’d been at odds since rookie year, Patrick couldn’t deny the way he’d begun to expect Jonny to be there, to push back, to tell Patrick what he needed to and wanted Patrick to do. This new Jonny who didn’t seem to care what Patrick did was confusing and left Patrick with the feeling of uselessness. Jonny just suddenly pulled away, and Patrick didn’t know how to deal with the empty feeling left in his chest.

So, eventually Patrick found himself on a plane headed to Tampa. Patrick didn’t even like Tampa. It was hot, bright, and humid as an armpit.

Why did he chose here?

)(

_ The first time Patrick’s wrist is cut, it’s purely by accident. _

_ He’s in the hotel bathroom shaving, trying to ignore the silence, ignore the way he keeps expecting Jonny to come in and demand Patrick hurry the fuck up. Only he doesn’t, because Jonny has a concussion and is back home in Chicago and Patrick is desperately trying to keep everything together. He’s fucking exhausted and his coordination is off, so it’s only inevitable that his hand slips and he drops his razor. It makes a small slit on the inside of Patrick’s left wrist and he curses. _

_ He stands there for a moment, holding his wrist and applying pressure to get it to stop bleeding. There’s gauze in the cabinet and he wraps his wrist then finishes in the bathroom. Heaving a sigh, Patrick stands in his room for a while, staring at the empty bed where Jonny should be. He takes a deep breath, then heads down for the team breakfast. _

_ It’s mostly empty when Patrick walks in, the rookies are all still asleep. Seabs is grumbling at Duncs, while Sharpy is watching them with an amused expression. He perks up when he sees Patrick. _

_ “Peeks!” he calls. Patrick doesn’t really want to deal with this much excitement this early, he’s so tired and wants nothing more than to head back upstairs and pass out on his bed until they have to get on the bus to practice before the game against the Blues that night. He heads over, though, and steals Sharpy’s bagel. Sharpy protests, but makes no move to get it back, and Patrick nibbles on the food. He’s not very hungry. _

_ “What happened?” Duncs asks, nodding at Patrick’s wrapped wrist. Seabs pauses in his mumbling and glances up. _

_ “Huh? Oh,” Patrick says, lifting his arm. “This? It’s nothing, just dropped my razor this morning by accident. I’m fine.” _

_ Sharpy gives him a look, but Patrick ignores him. He told the truth, whatever Sharpy is thinking doesn’t matter. They finish the rest of the meal in relative silence, watching as the rest of the team trickles in and wolf down an absurd amount of food. Patrick feels vaguely sick as he watches Shawsy inhale his eggs, and decides he’s done eating.  _

_ “I’m out,” he says, standing up. _

_ “Hold on, Peeks,” Sharpy says. “I’m coming too.” _

_ Patrick shrugs and waits as Sharpy throws away his trash. As they stand in the elevator, Patrick allows his eyes to close. He’s unaware he’s swaying until Sharpy presses a hand to his shoulder. _

_ “Tired?” he asks. _

_ Patrick sighs. “Didn’t sleep well last night. Too quiet.” _

_ Sharpy hums. He doesn’t say anything else, just hooks his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and stays like that till they reach their floor. _

_ “You’re doing good, Peeks,” he says before slipping into his room. _

_ Patrick frowns at the hall. _

_ He isn’t doing good though. Yeah, they won the last few games, but no thanks to him. He can’t play center. He just can’t. All the dumb shit that the stat analyzers talk about and that Patrick normally ignores are true. He isn’t meshing with his lines, and his can’t center well. He’s not producing plays for his team, just creating opportunities for the opposition. _

_ He doesn’t know what to do. He wishes Jonny were here, but that dumb fuck managed to crash his car into a beam because he was too worried about the plays instead of his own head. Wasn’t he supposed to be the health nut? The one who was always telling Patrick to pay the fuck attention to what he was doing? _

_ But here they were, and Patrick felt as though he was sliding down a slope that had no end other than a black abyss. _

)(

_ They get whipped by St. Louis, the score ending 5-1. Patrick sits at his stall in the locker room, glaring at the ground and willing his burning eyes not to cry. He doesn’t fucking deserve it after the shit show that just happened. _

_ His cut wrist throbs. _

 

)(

_ The next few games are at home, and when they land the morning after St. Louis, Patrick passes up a team outing, opting to go home, shower, then head over to Jonny’s. _

_ His condo is dark when Patrick lets himself in, and he tries to not make too much noise in case Jonny is asleep. He doesn’t have to worry though, Jonny pads silently out while Patrick makes himself lunch. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as Patrick quietly works his way around the kitchen. _

_ “Are you hungry?” Patrick asks, because Jonny won’t take care of himself if Patrick doesn’t. Jonny gives a brief nod, and Patrick sets down his sandwich to pull out the rye bread that Jonny uses. Jonny pulls himself onto one of the bar stools that Patrick is pretty sure he hates, but got anyways because Patrick had made him realize that swivel stools were totally worth it. It’s quiet, but when Patrick sets Jonny’s lunch in front of him, Jonny looks up and says “You lost last night.” _

_ Not we lost last night. You lost last night.  _

_ Patrick swallows and stares at the countertop, waiting for Jonny to continue. He doesn’t though, just grabs his plate and disappears back to his bedroom. Patrick stands, shaking and trying to will himself into staying upright. His wrist starts to throb, and Patrick focuses on the pain to ignore the ache in his chest, because it’s obvious that Jonny doesn’t think he’s good enough. _

_ Patrick’s not sure how long he stays there, but when he goes to check on Jonny, he’s in bed, back facing Patrick. The sandwich Patrick made him is gone and there’s an empty glass on the night table.  _

_ “Jonny?” Patrick asks, because he must be a glutton for pain and wants Jonny to just say something. He doesn’t answer, but Patrick knows he’s awake. Jonny’s angry then. Patrick swallows and takes the plate and glass, putting them in the dishwasher and retrieving a new cup to fill and place next to Jonny.  _

_ “Is there anything you need?” Patrick asks, because he has to do something. He has to be able to do something right. But all Jonny says is “Go home.” _

_ Patrick does, apparently incapable of doing anything else. _

)(

_ He adds a cut to the one already existing, because the pain helps him continue.  _

_ He’s so tired. _

)(

The hotel he’s staying at is on the quieter part of the city, closer to the Peninsula than the main skyline. It’s nice being able to walk around and not be recognized. Tampa is a big hockey city for Florida, but compared to the rest of the country, people here don’t really pay attention to it.

Patrick stands in his room checking his phone, but other than the normal shit, there’s only a text from his mom, demanding to know where the hell he’d gone, his therapist didn’t know where he was or why he didn’t show up to his appointment; what was he thinking?

He sends a simple “I’m okay mom” before shutting off his phone, grabbing a hat and walking out.

For a moment Patrick is tempted to go to a bar, but he doesn’t need another reason to be on the front headlines. Walking downtown, he loses himself in the less chaotic city of Tampa. There’s more space and fresher air with the sounds of seagulls screeching overhead.

Patrick- surprisingly- likes it. He walks all the way to the bay trail, hands in his pockets and head tipped back to let the sun warm his face. He feels calmer than he’s felt in a long while and isn’t sure how long he stands there enjoying the afternoon sun’s rays when he feels a tug on his shirt. When he looks down, there’s a little girl shifting on her feet and looking hopeful. Patrick glances around for anyone who might seem like her parents, and frowns when he doesn’t see any.

“Hey,” he says, crouching down. “You okay?”

“Can you help me?” the girl asks.

Patrick blinks. “What’s wrong?”

“I need help getting to the Voices for Children Home,” she says. At Patrick’s blank look she adds, “It’s place where all the kids who don’t have mommies and daddies live.”

Patrick twitches at that, and briefly wonders if she’s an orphan or a volunteer’s child. But the girl looks like she’s less than ten years old. Whoever is in charge of her obviously never gave the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ lesson; either way Patrick isn’t going to leave this kid alone in the city.

“I actually don’t live here,” he tells the girl. “So I don’t know how to get there, but maybe we can ask someone who does.”

She looks at him, nervous and scared, but the sun will start setting in an hour or so and she obviously doesn’t know what else to do. “M’kay.”

For a moment Patrick flounders, unsure of what to actually do. He’s not exactly one hundred percent either, and he doesn’t want to have a relapse in front of this tiny kid he’s suddenly in charge of. He’s saved when he spots a department store down the street and figures that there must be someone who can help. He points to it and turns to the girl. “Let’s go see if anyone in there knows where we go.”

She looks at him then the store then back. “Okay.”

The stores clerk is visibly confused by Patrick’s question and looks between him and the girl before saying she might be able to pull up directions for them. While she’s busy tapping away at her phone, Patrick turns to his little charge. They’ve yet to be introduced.

“I’m Patrick,” he smiles.

The girl frowns at him. “You’re supposed to hold out your hand so I can shake it,” she declares. “That’s what they do in the movies we watch, and what we have to do at the House, and that’s what Mom and Dad used to say.”

Patrick blinks, because what? But the girl is looking at him stubbornly and Patrick can’t help the small huff of laughter before doing what she said. A part of his mind quietly notes that he hasn’t laughed in a long time.

“I’m Patrick,” he repeats, this time kneeling down and sticking out his hand. The girl grabs it happily. Her eyes are blue and sparkling. 

“Emma!” she chirps. “Thanks for being really nice and helping me!”

Something in Patrick’s chest clenches at her bubbly tone, because all the context clues point to her being an orphan and not the kid of a social worker or volunteer. He feels slightly sick; how can a little girl be so much happier than him, when her situation is so much worse?

)(

_ They win the next game, but then lose to LA. Patrick finally allows anger and frustration to bubble over, and he screams himself hoarse at the other team. He’s not chirping, just throwing insults because if he can’t play properly he has to do something, but the Kings just glare and skate around him. Sharpy throws him a concerned glance when Patrick comes off the ice, but he ignores him. _

_ He’s fine. _

 

_ There are three small lines on the inside of his wrist. _

)(

_ The rest of the regular season continues in a miserable pattern of one win, one long losing streak. It fucking sucks, and Patrick loses himself in the downward spiral of pain and anguish. He doesn’t know what to do, how to be better, what to say to Jonny so that he’ll answer with something other than the blank stare or disappointed silence.  _

_ He’s so lost, so confused. Why can’t he do better? _

_ Patrick tries to beg out of bar outings and video game sessions. He just so tired all of the time. Sharpy starts to take notice, and Patrick tampers back on the solidarity to not arouse suspicion over what’s going on in his head. He’s fine. _

_ The small slits on his arm are helping, he thinks. They hurt, but they give him something to focus on, something that distracts him from the reality that is turning into a nightmare. There are already trade rumors circulating, not dissuaded by the fact that the Hawks managed to clinch a playoff spot. So many people are complaining at his failure to step up in Jonny’s place; they’re angry and calling for his blood. Patrick wonders what they’d say if they saw the crimson liquid that comes out of his wrist every couple of nights after the games. _

)(

_ He tells Addy.  _

_ He has to tell someone, Addy fits the bill best. She’s the closest friend he has in Chicago who isn’t an annoying teammate or a guy whom he goes “way back when” with (more like a girl he goes way back when with). So he tells her about the lacerations and why he has them, the hopelessness he feels every time he steps out onto the ice now, how so damn tired he is. Admits it really. He can’t hide it from her when they’re chilling at her place making dinner together (because it’s something they’d done once a week ever since she moved to Chicago from Buffalo), and Patrick forgets to leave his sleeve rolled down. Addy gives a sharp exhale and grabs Patrick’s forearm, jerking him when she sees them clearly. _

_ “What did you do?” Addy demands. “What did you do?” _

_ Patrick tugs his arm away and turns his back. “It’s nothing.” _

_ “Patrick,” she says. “That’s not nothing. You know it and I know it.” _

_ “I’m fine,” Patrick tries to insist. He’s not able to stop his voice from wavering. Addy stares at him for a moment longer before taking a deep breath.  _

_ “Alright, change of plans,” she says turning off the stovetop and sweeping her half chopped vegetables into a tupperware. “I’m going to clean all of this up, while you get that big tub of ice cream from the freezer and two spoons and go wait in the living room. We’re gonna talk about what’s going on with you and then we’re gonna break our diets and eat copious amounts of ice cream while watching Bambi ‘cause it’s one of those days. Step to it Eighty- eight!” _

_ And that’s how Patrick is coerced into telling her about how how he’s not sure what he’s doing, how everything is wrong and Patrick doesn’t know how to make it work. How hockey doesn’t make him happy anymore. _

_ “What does make you happy?” Addy asks. Patrick stares. He can’t answer. He doesn’t know. “What does Jonny say?” Addy continues. _

_ Patrick swallows. “He hates me.” _

_ Addy frowns. “Sorry, what? What reason would he have for that?” _

_ “I’m not good enough,” Patrick whispers. “Everyone says so, and he doesn’t say anything different.” _

_ “That doesn’t mean he’s mad at you or hates you.” _

_ Patrick shakes his head; Addy doesn’t see the stares, doesn’t hear the crushing silence, doesn’t feel the cold shoulder. She can’t know. _

_ His friend sighs, “I’m worried Patrick.” She reaches out and gently rubs her thumb over the wounds that are starting to scar. “When I saw this I thought…” she trails off. “Talk to someone, please Patrick? I’m so worried.” _

_ Patrick can’t bring himself to lie to her face, so he just nods numbly. _

)(

_ Addy’s cousin is giving birth the week that playoffs start so she has to fly out to Rochester, and Patrick doesn’t know what to do. He’d been going ot her house almost everyday since the regular season ended in order to have a time to decompress what was going on in his head. Now he’s not sure what will happen. The first playoff game is in two days, and Patrick is driving himself crazy. Jonny is coming back for the game, he’ll be at practice tomorrow. What will he be like? Will things go back to normal or will Jonny glare at everyone, especially Patrick, and talk about how disgraceful the team is, how Patrick is. Will he shout and have Patrick moved down the lines? Will he get Q to scratch Patrick?  _

_ The worry is making him go insane, and Patrick curls up in his bathtub that night and watches as three cuts bleed down into the drain. The soft drip drip drip soothes the pounding in his head, and he closes his eyes and just listens. He’s so lost, he so tired. _

)(

After getting directions from the clerk, and bearing the cooing at how adorable they are, Patrick manages to usher Emma and himself out of the store. As they walk, Patrick finds himself pleasantly charmed as Emma bounces along at his side, more cheerful now that she is heading back to the place she calls home. She’s currently chattering on about how manatees are the weirdest animal  _ in the world _ and doesn’t Patrick agree?

“Maybe, but what about a moose?” Patrick asks, because seriously, moose are fucking weird animals.

Emma wrinkles her nose. “But moose are reindeer and reindeer are really cool, even if Santa doesn’t exist. Paul says so.”

Patrick doesn’t know who Paul is but, “Moose aren’t reindeer.”

Emma stops right there in the middle of the sidewalk and gawks at him. “They aren’t?” She sounds like her whole world has been rocked. Patrick resists the urge to grin. 

“Nope,” he answers.

She stares at him. “Really really?”

Patrick loses the battle and laughs bright and out loud. “Nope!”

“Wow,” Emma gasps and is shocked into silence for a few moments before startling Patrick with a shriek. “It’s the hockey rink!”

Sure enough the tell-tale lightning bolt statue can be seen. Emma seems ecstatic. “I got to go to a game once with my family. We got watch people play,do you know how to play? I like Tampa cause they’re the color blue, but Daddy used to say that we have to cheer for Chicago ‘cause that’s where he lived when he was as little as me.” She whips around to face him. “If you don’t know what hockey is then you gotta learn about it. It’s so cool and fun to watch! Didja know that my Dad took my brothers to a Chicago game once- not me cause he said I was still a baby and wouldn’t understand, but there was this big guy and he gave my brothers a puck! Can you believe that? His name was Patrick Kane and-” she blinks and points a finger at Patrick. “You have the same name as the guy who gave us a puck!”

Patrick is reeling at her energy and what she just said. He what? Emma is still pointing at him, delighted and waiting for a reply. Before he knows it, Patrick is saying “I gave your brothers a puck.” It comes out almost as a question. Emma shakes her head.

“Nuh uh. Patrick Kane gave us a puck.”

Patrick looks at her confused, then realizes she probably knows who he is, but not what he looks like. “I’m Patrick Kane,” he says.

Emma scowls. “No you aren’t!”

“Really, I am,” he answers.

“Prove it!” Emma challenges, jutting out her chin and Patrick is suddenly struck with how much she reminds him of Jonny. She’s got the same color hair, though in the sun Patrick can see streaks of blonde and red. But the stubborn glint in her eyes and determined pout is strangely similar to Jonny.

Emma is still looking at him and Patrick feels warmth in his stomach when he holds out his hand.

“Challenge accepted.”

)(

_ They lose to Arizona. Arizona. In six games they lose and lose and lose. Patrick sits in his stall after the final game, desperately trying to just breathe. It barely works.  _

_ Jonny is making his way around the locker room, giving small words of encouragement to the guys, little phrases like “you did your best”, “thanks for everything”, “we’ll get ‘em next year”, and “I’m proud of you”. He stops in front of Patrick and just stands there. Patrick waits. The room slowly empties. Jonny goes back to his stall and finishes changing before walking to the exit and pausing.  _

_ “Bus leaves soon, Kaner. Don’t be late,” and he’s gone. _

_ Patrick drops his head into his hands and sobs. _

)(

_ When he gets home, Patrick walks straight to his bathroom and turns on the shower, stripping himself and stepping into the spray. He doesn’t know what to do, his head is pounding as replays every shift every line change every goal that could have gone differently but it didn’t because Patrick is a failure and he is incapable of anything. Not even Jonny wasted his time after that last game to speak to him. Why should he? That’s what Patrick is: a waste. He’s crying so hard he can’t see when he lifts the razer, the sharp blade shaking in his hand so badly that he cuts deeper than he intends to, and the pain snaps him out of it.  _

_ He gasps, staring at the stream of crimson, shocked. The blood mixes with the water turning a sickly brown and the pounding drops sting when they hit the wound. Patrick shoots his hand out and shuts the water off, closes his eyes. _

_ Drip drip drip. _

_ He doesn’t know if it’s the residual water drops or his blood. He can’t bring himself to look, just leans against the cold tile of the shower and cries and cries. _

_ Drip drip drip. _

_ The next few days pass similarly to that night. Some of the team texts a few days after he gets back, asking where he is and if he wants to go to the end of the season get together the Blackhawks do. Patrick lies and says he’s already in Buffalo. He can’t bring himself to face them, not when he’d woken up just minutes ago with blood crusted to his arm and body sore from having passed out on his bathroom floor. _

_ They’d only be disappointed in his inability to handle things.  _

)(

Patrick had planned to ask one of the social workers if he could borrow a computer to show Emma who he is, but as soon as they step into the building for Voices for Children, the front desk lady looks up and narrows her eyes.

“You are in a lot of trouble young lady,” she says. Emma flinches and Patrick finds himself leaning in front of her. The scary desk lady continues on. “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt, running away like that. You’re lucky that this young man here brought you back. What were you thinking?”

Emma’s close to tears at this point and scary desk lady has walked up to them, hands on her hips, and Patrick is so so tempted to tell her to back away.

“I hate it here,” Emma whispers. Scary desk lady’s eyes soften and she doesn’t seem so scary anymore. Emma continues. “I want my bed and I want my dog and Josh and Luke and Mommy and Daddy. I wanna go home.”

“I know baby,” desk lady says. “But that’s not possible.”

Patrick wants to punch her. Who the fuck says that to a little kid? Emma’s nodding her head shakily, sniffling. “‘Cause they’re not coming back anymore,” she says, an fuck. Patrick can’t do this. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, the white walls reminding him of the hospital ward; the smell of lysol reminding him of the IV drip and sterile sheets.

He stands silent as desk lady presses an intercom and calls for a guy named Paul. She turns to Patrick, who is struggling to not freak out.

“Thanks for bringing her back safely,” she says. “We were worried out of our minds when we found out she’d run away this morning. Paul called for the police, but they couldn’t find her and had other things going on. You’ve really saved her.”

A man calling Emma’s name interrupts them. He’s short and tan with visible stress in his eyes that relax when Emma steps forward. “Don’t you know how scared I was?” he asks. 

Emma sniffles, sounding miserable. 

“Honey, look at you,” he pauses and sighs. “It’s late and you’ve undoubtedly missed lunch and dinner. C’mon.” He holds out a hand for her to take.

Emma blinks. “Can I say bye to Patrick?” she whispers. Paul and desk lady glance at each other and Paul nods. Patrick crouches down when Emma turns to face him. For a moment she is still, then she throws her arms around his neck. Patrick return the hug. He feels his shirt getting damp where Emma’s face is pressed into it, and he tightens his grip when he feels her begin to tremble. She leans forward up on her toes and whispers to his ear.

“Thanks for giving a puck to my Daddy and brothers. It made them really really happy.”

And then she’s gone, and Patrick is left watching as the little girl he met and grew to love in the span of a couple hours disappears down a hall, her small feet tapping on the cold tile floor.

)(

_ Some nights, Patrick lays awake, cursing himself to falling so low, to allowing himself to act suicidal. The team has therapists, doctors. He can easily tell them what’s wrong, what’s going on in his head. The problem is he doesn’t know. Every time Patrick steps into his shower and sees the small razer, he can’t help himself. No matter what he tells himself, he can’t stop. It’s easier each time to make the small incision, to watch as the water turns a reddish brown and flow down the drain. It’s bad, he knows, but at the same time it’s fascinating, to know that this pulsing liquid is what keeps him alive. He’s not sure it deserves it anymore. _

)(

_ It’s halfway through May when Patrick finally makes his way back to his home in Buffalo. It’s bigger and quieter than he remembers. Why did he ever buy a house this cold? He walks slowly through the bottom floor and stands at the sliding door overlooking the lake. It’s cloudy out, and the lake looks dark and unforgiving. Patrick wonders how many people have drowned in there. _

_ There’s no food in the kitchen, and though it’s only early afternoon, Patrick plods up the stairs and into his room, flopping onto the stale sheets. He’s exhausted. Almost all the time now. _

_ Patrick awakes to the smell of his mom’s pancakes. The soft morning sun is shining on Patrick’s face. He grumbles and turns his back. It’s too bright. How long did he sleep for?  _

_ Heaving a sigh, Patrick gets up slowly and pulls on old clothes and a hoodie. He’s cold. When he heads downstairs, Patrick sets about looking for his mom. She’s in the kitchen, humming softly. Patrick carefully tugs at his old London hoodie and draws the sleeves all the way down. He doesn’t want his mom to see his scars. She’d freak. _

_ “Morning,” he greets. Donna swings around, beaming. _

_ “Patrick!” she checks the food then comes around the island to hug him. “You didn’t say you were home!” The unspoken question of where he’d been hangs heavy in the air. Patrick refuses to acknowledge it.  _

_ “Sorry mom, I was busy.” he lies. _

_ Donna arches a brow, but doesn’t call him out on it. “Well I’m glad you’re back. I’d actually came down here to check on the house since I didn’t know when you’d come home. Well imagine my surprise when I saw your car in the driveway! You were still asleep- I assume you had a late flight?- so I went out and got some groceries and started to make breakfast. I haven’t eaten, I know you haven’t eaten, and I’d figured that we could have some bonding time and you could tell me about your summer so far.” _

_ She doesn’t mention hockey in her tirade once. Not once. Patrick loves him mom. _

_ He quietly asks how things have been since they’d last spoken. Donna excitedly tells him about how Jackie is already looking at colleges- can he imagine? She mentions that Tiki has been keeping himself busy and happy, how Erica and Jessica were excited to come home and spend some time on the lake, subtly hinting that the girls wanted him to get a boat. _

_ Patrick doesn’t want a boat. He nods though and says “Maybe”. He doesn’t mention anything else. Donna stares at him for a moment.  _

_ “Are you doing okay, Patty?” she asks. Patrick nods. “It seems like you’re quieter. I know things were hard for you last season, but the family is proud of you. You know that right?” _

_ “I know mom,” Patrick says. “I’m just a bit tired.” _

_ Donna smiles gently. “Well let me clean up and I’ll leave you to rest. Let us know if you need anything, okay honey?” _

_ Patrick acknowledges and takes his time walking to his backyard patio. The tarp is still over the pool, and the yard needs some work. He can’t bring himself to care. _

_ Patrick goes inside and collapses into his bed. He doesn’t wake till after the sun has set. There’s the sound of a TV on downstairs, and Patrick closes his eyes once more. It’s probably one of his sisters. He doesn’t want to have to talk to them right now. They’ll be able to see that something is wrong, and he doesn’t want to have to explain anything to them. They wouldn’t understand. He rolls over and goes back to sleep. _

_ He’s not sure how long he’s out that time, but when Patrick wakes up again the sun is high in the sky and the house is silent. Yawning, Patrick slowly hauls himself up and to the bathroom to brush his teeth and pad down the stairs. He looks through his cabinets to see what his mom stocked them with, and gives a soft grumble when he sees nothing that stirs his appetite. There’s a box of tea that Patrick doesn’t ever remember getting, but he isn’t in the mood for coffee so he fills the kettle with water and waits for it to boil. When his tea is steeped, he quietly takes his mug out to the backyard patio, settling himself into a chair. He watches the lake water ripple slowly, sipping his drink and trying to think about what he might do today. _

_ His eyes catch on a large patch of dirt in the corner of the yard. He wonders what it would look like if there were actually plants there. He slowly warms to the idea. True, he has no idea how the fuck to take care of a garden, but something in him  wants to try. Maybe if he’s good enough then he’ll have something to fall back on when hockey inevitably fails. The past season was premonition enough.  _

)(

When Patrick gets back to his hotel room, he turns on his phone and waits while it explodes with texts and missed calls from while it was off. The majority are from his family, but there are a few from his therapist. They mostly start off sounding freaked out that he disappeared on them without a warning, then go on to say that he needs to update them on where he is every morning and evening. In one message his therapist says softly “I understand if you need your space Patrick. Sometimes these things need to be worked out on the patient's own. You’re still under watch though, and we’re all worried about you, so keep in touch yeah? No more hospital emergencies.”

None are from Jonny. He hasn’t spoken to Patrick since before his concussion.

Patrick flops back on his bed. He’s not sure why he still checks for something- anything- from Jonny. He isn’t even sure why it bothers him so much, this thing with Jonny. Jonny is a stubborn jerk who has control issues and doesn’t say anything when his own health is fucked up and nearly gets himself killed because of it (though Patrick is hardly better as seen through his ER visit just a month and a half ago).

But he hadn’t said anything to Patrick, and Patrick isn’t sure why it hurts him so much. He just… he just… 

Patrick turns his head, and his eyes fall on the mini bar. Fuck.

)(

_ His sisters laugh when he asks what kind of flowers they like.  He’d thought that if he was going to try and create a garden in the backyard of his too big lakehouse, the least he could do was try to pick plants that his family could enjoy if he was away.  He’d brought it up to his younger siblings, and couldn’t stop the sting of hurt when they didn’t seem to take him seriously.  _

_ “C’mon, Patty,” Erica said, snorting. “Do you really think you’re gonna follow through with that?” _

_ Patrick blinks, confused. “Why not?” _

_ “It’s always been hockey for you,” Jessica answers. “Everything else stays second to that.” _

_ She says it so matter of factly that Patrick feels sick. “Not you guys,” he tries weakly. “You’ll always come before hockey, you should know that!” _

_ Jackie pats his arm. “We do know that. What Jess is talking about it other stuff.” _

_ “Like what?” Patrick asks. _

_ Erica smiles deprecatingly. “That’s what we mean Pat.” _

)(

_ It was a mistake.  _

_ Jonny still hadn’t said anything and his mom has been on his ass about being radio silent after the season had ended, and the pain was coming in too fast and he’d just needed to take some of the edge off before his sisters arrived for their sibling bonding time. _

_ God it was such as mistake. _

_ It wasn’t supposed to go so deep, but his hand was shaking and it’d slipped.  There was too much blood, he was breathing too fast. He was terrified, so so sososososo scared.  He didn’t want to die. _

_ The front door slams and Erica hollors for him.  He can’t bring himself to answer. There’s darkness creeping in too fast, but he doesn’t want her to come into his room doesn’t want her to see. _

_ She calls for him again. He can’t answer, he’s on the floor now trying so hard, so damn hard to stay awake.  _

_ He doesn’t want to die. _

)(

He’s a little tipsy when he calls Sharpy. Patrick isn’t sure why he calls Sharpy. Last time they talked there was a lot of crying and frantic “don’t hurt yourself anymore, Kaner  _ please, _ ” and the whole conversation is something Patrick doesn’t really want to remember right now.

But what does he want to talk about? Patrick isn’t sure.

Sharpy picks up on the third ring. “Kaner!” he greets. “Glad to hear you’ve finally decided to contact someone while the rest of your friends and family lose their minds wondering where the hell you’ve been. How’s it going?”

Patrick stares at the ceiling, thinking. Sharpy has a kid now. He wonders… 

“Kaner? You ok? You still there buddy?”

“What do our contracts say about kids?”

There’s silence on the line, and Patrick wonders if he’s drunker than he thought. Maybe.

“Kaner, is there something you need to tell me?” Sharpy asks. “I know I’m not Dr. Mayer, but I can still listen.”

“I think I might want to adopt Emma,” Patrick says and shit, he really is drunk. He eyes the bottle of his beer, but then he realizes, “Holy shit, Sharpy, I can’t be a dad.”

“Kaner,” Sharpy tries to butt in, but Patrick shakes his head, forgetting Sharpy can’t see him.

“No seriously!” He may or may not be slurring. “Emma remembers her family and I’m ya know, a hot fucking mess and all screwed up in the head-” (Sharpy stutters “Kaner what-”) Patrick plows on. “-and she’s seven-” Patrick shoots up, swaying. “Holy shit Sharpy. I’d be like a teen mom. Dad? That doesn’t really matter though does it? I mean, we both think that moose and manatees are kinda the weirdest animals on the planet. I mean, sea cows and truck sized deer?” Patrick rolls onto his belly and presses his face into the pillows. “Sharpy, I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a pause then Sharpy is speaking. “Kaner, where are you right now? Are you at home?”

Patrick shakes his head, then remembers to talk. “No.”

“Where are you Kaner?”

Patrick looks out the window. He can see the bay from here. “Tampa.”

Sharpy makes a surprised sound then says, “I need you to drink some water then go to bed. Tomorrow you gotta book a flight back to Buffalo. Can you do that, Kaner?”

Patrick frowns. Why? Didn’t Sharpy hear Patrick say that he’s going to adopt Emma? Why did Sharpy want him to go back to Buffalo? Patrick just left Buffalo.

“Kaner?”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Sharpy asks. “Patrick, you need to come home and sort your shit out.”

“Emma doesn’t have a home,” Patrick realizes. “Oh my god, Emma doesn’t have a home.”

“Patrick are you listening?” Sharpy never calls Patrick by his name unless he’s serious, but Patrick is serious too.

“I can’t leave Sharpy. She’s all alone. My therapist talked to me about being alone, isn’t it the same thing? Plus Ilene-” scary desk lady “says that there’s no one else able to take care of her, so I had to- have to.”

“Kaner,” Sharpy says, and his voice is oddly gentle. “I know you had a lot to take care of this past season, and that it really messed with you. There are records to prove it. But you don’t have to do that anymore for others right now. You need to take care of yourself.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. Sharpy doesn’t get it. Patrick isn’t saying this cause he feels like he has to be responsible, he tried that with Jonny, but Jonny wasn’t saying anything. He ignored Patrick when Patrick needed him most, and Patrick didn’t know what to do other than try to prove he could be responsible, only to be left with criticism. To be left with a brain that thought too much and couldn’t handle it, that lashed out and left him weak and helpless and alone.

But Emma had asked for help and Patrick had helped her and she’d been so grateful and bright, even though her situation fucking sucked.

Patrick suddenly realized that he wanted that; he wanted to make Emma smile and be the happiest person on earth. He wanted to be there when things sucked because unlike him, she handled it like a champ and had been so thankful for such a small thing. She made Patrick feel wanted  _ needed _ and Patrick wanted to have that everyday.

Patrick rolled to his side and pressed a palm to his chest. His heart ached, because Jonny for some reason didn’t react that way. Even with all of the therapy sessions, Patrick still didn’t know why it hurt so bad.

Sharpy was still talking when Patrick pulled his phone away from his ear and hung up.

)(

_ There’s screaming and crying and sirens. _

 

_ There’s the scent of sterile bedding and the beeping of an ECG. _

 

_ There the voice of someone, sounding sad apologetic and “I’m sorry… based off the scars… different measures… tried to commit suicide.” Someone is still crying. _

 

_ He’s cold. So so cold. _

 

_ There’s a guy with a black suit on, holding a manilla folder with the Hawks logo on it, smiling and saying he’ll be his therapist from now on until he’s stable.  He hates him already. _

)(

_ “How was today?” Today sucked.  _

 

_ “You need to find something Patrick.  It will help distract you.” He’s still here.  Isn’t that enough?  _

 

_ “Perhaps hockey isn’t the only thing you should focus on. Surely there are other things?” No. Well, not that he knows of. He looks outside into the backyard.  _

 

_ “I see you’ve cleared some of the backyard, are you still thinking of that garden?” Fuck off. What he does is his business. Besides, his sisters didn’t care. Why should he? _

 

_ “Your teammates have been trying to get in contact with you.  The press we can obviously avoid for now, but the guys, they’re worried.” He can’t. He can’t. _

 

_ “I’m glad to hear you’ve been doing better.” He has, he really has.  He called Sharpy then Duncs and Seabs then Hossa the other day and spent the next three hours crying. _

 

_ “Jonathan is planning on coming down soon-” He needs to get out of here. _


End file.
